There and Back Again
by WritingReadingLaughing
Summary: Written for a prompt by Agent ERA. John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only a year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. This is John's journey to come to terms with his new disability and new friend Sherlock Holmes... No slash unless you squint. Set during ASiP. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Chapter 1**

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no knowledge or experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

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John Watson didn't regret much in his life. He didn't regret leaving his reasonably good life in England to go serve overseas in the Army. He didn't regret the risks that he had put himself through to save his comrades. He didn't regret that he shot men to save his own life. What he did regret was not paying close enough attention to his surroundings on that one fateful day.

It was mid-afternoon and the sun wasn't as hot as it had been. The shooting had been going on for a couple of hours and John was kept on his toes by the frantic calls for a medic among the fighting soldiers. He had just finished treating a young British soldier that had been shot three times in his leg and was taking a short break. The young man's condition was stable but it was unlikely that he would live with all the blood he had lost. John's break was cut short by cries up in the front line.

Heaving himself up, feeling slightly more refreshed, John rushed over to a couple of men who gestured slightly in front of them. John could see from here that the downed soldier was a fellow Army doctor who had been shot trying to get to another casualty.

The soldier in John made him check that the coast was clear before he dashed out, keeping a low profile to the ground, hands clasped around his medical bag and revolver. He dived into a shallow ditch just as the firing started up again and crawled over to the pale doctor. John's patient was breathing but only just, the crimson red that was staining his uniform around the wound was dripping on to the sandy earth. John grabbed a cloth from his kit and pressed down firmly on the doctor's right side. He whimpered slightly but otherwise didn't give any indication that it was painful. Quickly tying the makeshift bandage across the man's abdomen, John began dragging him across the ground towards the relative safety of the other troops.

The gun fire was still rocketing on above his head and John made sure to stay as low to the ground as possible. His patient was still rapidly losing blood and it would probably almost take nothing short of a miracle to save his life. John estimated that he had about six minutes before he was gone for good. Staring back the way he had come, John realized that his previous route would take far too long and his patient would definitely perish. The only way that John could go and perhaps stand a chance was over the flat turf that separated him from the main body of soldiers.

It was a reckless choice and John knew it. The open ground would make him an easy target to hit and there was little cover for him to hide behind. Even without a patient, he would stand little chance at making it across the sixty meter dash that he would have to overcome. It was near suicide but he had no choice.

Waiting for a break in the fire, John heaved his considerably lighter patient over his right shoulder and began to run. He could hear the whistling of the bullets as they flew past him and embedded themselves in the sun-baked earth, narrowly missing the two of them. Soldiers from both sides were shouting. Some to urge him on, others ordering him to be shot. Something exploded behind him. Hand grenade. He had halved the distance already and was almost to safety when something ripped through his left shoulder and he collapsed. The man he was carrying fell on top of him, bending his right leg at in impossible angle until it snapped. John was hardly aware of the scream that forced itself passed his lips as waves of nearly unbearable pain coursed through him. It was pain beyond imagining and yet it seemed so real. It seemed freeing and liberating and John just wanted to give in to it and leave all his pain and suffering behind.

He wanted to die. He wanted to die. He wanted to die. And yet… John felt like he had some other purpose that he had to fulfill. Something that told him that his life wasn't over. That he NEEDED to live because somewhere, something, someone was calling to him to live, to fight, to win.

John coughed, his throat dry and aching but nothing compared to his shoulder and leg. Now that John had the will to fight, he managed to push away the pain and clear his mind just enough to assess his injuries. His leg was crooked and bent sideways and it would seem as if he had broken both bones in his lower leg. The bones in his shoulder must be at least broken in several places and the bullet must have narrowly missed his heart.

Someone was kneeling down beside him, frantic fingers pressing down firmly on the heavily bleeding wound. John weakly opened his eyes and stared up at the man who was trying to save him. It wasn't even a medic but a soldier that he had once brought back from the dead. John managed a smile that probably turned out to be more of a grimace.

"Repaying the favour?" He said, attempting to make light of the situation, while the man began to drag him across the desert sand. Black spots began to appear in his vision and the pain began to dull. He was overcome by dizziness and nearly passed out but managed to fight it a little longer. Something exploded next to him in a cloud of cream-like pallor and the man who was dragging John began to pull even harder. John couldn't fully understand what was going on with his pain addled brain and frankly didn't think that he could be in any more danger then he already was. His eyes were beginning to grow heavy but he forced them to stay open. They protested and began to water until John finally let his eyelids close.

Then as he was slipping away into unconsciousness, John felt a burning sensation in his mouth and nose and smelt something that reminded him faintly of mustard…

* * *

The first thing that struck John when he regained consciousness was how dark it was. If it wasn't for the people talking on the other side of, what he guessed, was a hospital bed, he would have thought that he was still asleep. There was a heavy bandage over his right leg and his shoulder was swabbed to the point that it nearly touched his ear. There was a piece of cloth covering his eyes and John just wanted to tear it off and see what had happened for himself. The pain was still there and it continued to punish his nerves until John just wanted to sit up and scream and shout and hook up more morphine to dull it. The injuries that he had suffered were beginning to get more agonizing then at the time he had first got them.

He coughed once, trying to get one of the doctors attention, but it seemed that they were all either busy or unable to hear him. He coughed again and raised his arm. This seemed to get someone's attention and soon there were footsteps stopping beside his bed.

"What is it, sir?" It was a relatively young voice that shook slightly and John decided that he couldn't have been in the Army long and that he was probably ranked below him.

"What…" His voice was unusually rough and dry and it was hard to push the words past his throat and through into his mouth. "What happened?" He tried again. The doctor beside him began to fidget, as if debating what to tell him,

"Well… You were shot. In the shoulder, and when you fell you broke your leg." The report was delivered swiftly and efficiently and seemed to be the complete truth, but John knew that there was something else.

"Rank?"

"Corporal, sir."

"Well I happen to be a Captain, but I'm sure that you know that already.

"Yes sir."

"And that I happen to also be a doctor?

"Yes sir.

"Well then Corporal, what are you leaving out?"

"Nothing, sir."

"Do not lie to a senior officer Corporal, I am ordering you. What. Is. Wrong?" John sat up slightly and reached out blindly and managed to grabbed the man's wrist. "Tell me."

"Sir…" He began rather weakly. "You're blind."

John let the man go and sank back on to the bed, not paying attention to what the doctor was saying and only focusing on the last two words that had been spoken to him. Blind. Blind. Blind.

He was blind.

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**Once again, I am no expert and so things may be horrendously wrong! Please tell me if you notice something. And finally… REVIEW!**


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. **

**The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too.**

**Also this is going to go through the episode ASIP with John struggling with his blindness. There will be text that didn't happen in the episode and I might delete dialogue that did happen. There will also be changes to what actually happened to account for John's blindness.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

**AN: This. Is. An. Update. AMAZING! Sorry for the long wait guys and there are no excuses for how long it's been, but I got writers block and then I started school again and had no time to write because of homework, and then I just forgot about this story. Sorry once again. Enjoy!**

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It had been three months since John had been allowed out of the hospital. Six since his 'accident' on the battlefield.

John's shoulder had mostly healed, though it was still a painful reminder of what had happened. He walked with a limp, thanks to his previously broken leg and the guilt that he felt about the man he had been trying to save when he had gotten cane he used was both helpful for the limp and to find his way now that his eye sight was gone. He still found it hard to get used to the fact that he was now blind. Every morning he would open his eyes and expect to see the ceiling of his dingy apartment provided by the Army and every morning he was disappointed to find it dark.

The surgeons that had fixed his shoulder and leg had told him that it was temporary and would eventually clear up but John was beginning to doubt their words of optimism. He knew that there was a slight difference between when he had first been blinded and now, but his eyesight wasn't improving fast enough for him. There were operations that could help him regain his eyesight, but they were fairly expensive and John didn't have the money. He would have to let nature run his course and just hope that things would begin to clear up soon.

There were many times when he would pick up the gun that he had smuggled out of service and place it next to his temple, willing himself to pull the trigger. Every time he would stop and calmly put it back in the drawer. Then he would go for his regular walk through the park.

His therapist wasn't a big help either. She kept insisting that he keep a blog. John had pointed out that he was pretty much blind and wouldn't be able to type or see the keys so that wouldn't work. His therapist had just told him to get a family member to write it down as he narrated it to them. John didn't like that idea because it involved going to Harry's and asking for her help, which he refused to do. He didn't want to become dependent on someone to do something that he should be able to do perfectly well by himself. John didn't tell his therapist that though and kept insisting that he was doing what she was telling him to do. She always saw right through him.

He tried to keep some form of normality by getting out of the bed at exactly the same time, getting the same kind of apples and tea, sitting by the phone contemplating weather to call Harry or not, choosing not to, going to his therapist once a week at exactly ten o'clock, going for a walk through the park, going to the same café on the corner and finally going to bed. Repeat every day for six months.

It was one particularly bad day. Every night he would wake up sweating thanks to the nightmares that continued to plague him. Last night's was the worst so far. He was suffering from boredom after half a year of little to no excitement. It was slowly driving him mad. Once again, his therapist was being calm and sympathetic. That was what John hated most. The sympathy was horrible. Even if he couldn't see the glances that people gave him, he knew that they were sorry for him.

That was why, when he heard someone calling out his name in the park, he tried to ignore them.

"John! John Watson!" John finally stopped walking and turned around to face a person that he couldn't give a face to.

"Stamford, Mike Stamford. We were at Barts together." John remembered. Mike had always been an outgoing person that wanted to be anyone's and everyone's friend. He was a good person but he could sometimes grate on your nerves if you wanted to be alone.

"Yes, sorry, yes, Mike, hello." He switched his cane to his other hand and stuck out his hand, which Mike took and shook warmly. The hand was beefy and strong. Not at all what John remembered him to be like. Mike seemed to see the question in his unseeing eyes and answered it.

"Yes, I know, I got fat."

"No, no."

"I heard you were abroad somewhere getting shot at. What happened? Your eyes seem cloudy."

"I got shot. And…" John waved a hand in front of his face. "I can hardly see." John heard the sharp intake of breath which was swiftly released.

"Well then. Coffee?" Mike was trying to make John feel more comfortable and the Army doctor appreciated it. John nodded. His old friend led him to a secluded coffee shop two streets away. The door jingled as they entered and a cheerful voice greeted them.

"Mike! It's been awhile, how have you been?"

"Very well thank you Elsie. Could we have two regular coffees to go please?" John heard the clinking of coins as they were set on the counter and they were soon followed by two Styrofoam cups, brimming with dark liquid. Mike placed one of the cups in his hand and only let go when he was sure that John wouldn't drop it.

"Would you like me to add milk or sugar?" John shook his head and the action made some of the burning liquid slop over the edge. He winced slightly at the burn but otherwise kept a straight face. Mike grabbed the top of the cup and tried to take out of his grip, but the soldier in him made John keep a firm hold on it and Mike let go quickly. John appreciated the gesture but hated being reminded that he was disabled. His thoughts must have been visible on his face because, Mike squeezed his shoulder and muttered an almost inaudible apology.

A short while later, the two were back in the park, sitting on a park bench near a clump of trees.

"Are you still at Barts then?" John asked, trying to make small talk.

"Teaching now, yeah, bright young things like we used to be. God, I hate them." They shared a chuckle. "What about you, just staying in town till you get yourself sorted?"

"I can't afford London on an Army pension." John pointed out.

"And you couldn't bear to be anywhere else. That's not the John Watson I know."

"I'm not the John Watson."

"Couldn't Harry help?"

"Yeah, like that's going to happen!" John said incredulously. It was partly his fault for not asking for it but why would he ask someone for help if they were always drunk.

"I don't know, get a flatshare or something?"

"C'mon who'd want me for a flatmate?" John said. Mike started chuckling and took another sip from his coffee cup. "What?"

"You're the second person to say that to me today."

"Who was the first?"

Mike stood up and offered his hand to John, which the Army doctor took gratefully.

"C'mon, we're going to Barts. I'll introduce you to him there." This made John look up a little. Another doctor then, or a patient perhaps. Whoever it was, John was looking forward to meeting them.

* * *

John wandered around the unfamiliar corridors following Mike's voice to wherever they were going. The layout of St. Barts had changed since John had been there and he had no idea where they were heading. The tap tap tap of his cane was the only noise that echoed through the halls and John hated it. It was the one sound that followed him everywhere, the one thing that he couldn't ignore.

"Ah, here we are. C'mon in." Mike held the door open for John and broke the monotony of his cane and he nodded his appreciation.

"It's changed, hasn't it." John said as stepped through the doorway, cane swerving from side to side to make sure that he didn't run into anything.

"You've no idea!"

"Mike, can I borrow your phone? There's no signal on mine." Said a new voice. John assumed that this was who Mike had talked about. He stayed silent, not knowing what to say.

"And what's wrong with the landline?" Mike had moved away from him, probably closer to this stranger.

"I prefer to text."

"Sorry, it's in my coat." John understood the unspoken order behind the excuse and offered his instead.

"Here, use mine." He fished it out from his left hand pocket, holding it out, and assuming that the man was taller than him, which was likely, stared upwards slightly.

"Oh, thank you." The phone left his hand and he dropped his arm. He could hear the phone slide open and the sound of buttons filled his ears.

"This is an old friend of mine, John Watson." Mike said.

"Afghanistan or Iraq?" At first, John thought that the stranger had been talking to himself but something told him that he hadn't been. He shuffled his feet a little before replying.

"Sorry?"

"Which was it, Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"Afghanistan, sorry, how did you know?" He asked. The door opened behind him and someone walked in and behind him. The click of the heels on the tiled floor made it obvious that it was a women and the smell that drifted by meant that she had either recently had a cup of coffee or was carrying one.

"Ah! Molly, coffee, thank you. What happened to the lipstick?"

"It wasn't working for me."

"Really? It was a big improvement. It's too small now." He was walking away now, probably carrying the cup of coffee. John felt that he was intruding slightly and moved a couple of steps away.

"OK." Poor girl was either nervous or she had a bit of a crush on this man who didn't seem too concerned with feelings.

"How do you feel about the violin?" He said, raising his voice slightly. John was certain that he wasn't talking to Mike now.

"I'm sorry, what?"

"I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other." Mike must have told this man about him. How else would he have known he was here to see if they wanted to be flatmates.

"You told him about me?"

"Not a word." This was getting weirder and weirder.

"So, who said anything about flatmates?"

"I did. Told Mike this morning that I must be a difficult man to find a flatmate for. Now here he is just after lunch with an old friend clearly just home from military service in Afghanistan. Wasn't a difficult leap." John found that he had to ask how the man knew where he was stationed. He doubted that even Mike knew.

"How did you know about Afghanistan?" No answer to his question.

"Got my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together we ought to be able to afford it. We'll meet there tomorrow evening, seven o'clock. Sorry, got to dash. I think I left my riding crop in the mortuary." He walked past John and the Army doctor turned his head to where he thought the door was.

"Is that it?"

"Is that what?" The footsteps were doing a circle.

"We've only just met and we're going to go and look at a flat?"

"Problem?" Very nonchalantly said, John noticed.

"We don't know a thing about each other. I don't know where we're meeting; I don't even know your name." The man took a deep breath as if preparing to recite a speech.

"I know you're an Army doctor and you've been invalided home from Afghanistan. I know you've got a brother who's worried about you but you won't go to him for help because you don't approve of him, possibly because he's an alcoholic, more likely because he recently walked out on his wife. And I know that your therapist thinks your limp's psychosomatic, quite correctly, I'm afraid. That's enough to be going on with, don't you think?" Footsteps headed towards the door and the hinges creaked as it opened.

"The name's Sherlock Holmes and the address is 221B Baker Street. Afternoon." The door slammed as the man walked out of the room. John looked over to where he assumed Mike was.

"Yeah, he's always like that."

And as John continued to face the door through which this Sherlock had disappeared through, there was only one thought that was running through John's mind.

Does he know I'm blind?

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**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. And finally… REVIEW!**


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too. There will also be changes to what actually happened to account for John's blindness.**

**AN: There is a lot of editing from the actual episode in this chapter as we are meeting new people and it's getting harder to stick to canon.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

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John found that he was fascinated by Sherlock Holmes. Even if he hadn't seen the man himself he had gotten Mike to describe him so that John would know what he looked like. Apparently he was quite a tall man, almost a head and a half taller than John, he had jet black curly hair, usually wore a suit and a long jacket. There were many other details that John asked for and received and by the time that he had gotten back to his flat, he had a painted a decent picture of Sherlock Holmes.

He also got Mike to look at the Sent Messages on his phone and see what Sherlock had texted. It was something about a green ladder but John didn't recognize the receiver and put it out of his mind. He also called Harry for the first time in about three and a half months and asked her to come around. Of course she was dead drunk. Before she had even finished her first sentence, John slammed the phone down quickly to avoid an argument.

Not feeling hungry enough to eat, John took a shower before going to bed. It took a while before he actually drifted off and instead of the regular nightmares that normally visited and tormented him, he had a peaceful and restful night. The next morning the alarm went off at the usual time but for the first time, John actually hit the snooze button. Normally he would jump out of bed immediately and get about trying to make his day as exciting as possible. This time John slept another twenty minutes before getting up. He made himself a normal breakfast with a couple of slices of toast and jam, an orange and a cup of strong tea. He was in a relatively good mood and the day passed quite quickly.

By the time it was six-thirty, John was ready to go. He had made a metal note of the address and flagged down a taxi. The cab driver didn't comment when he nearly tripped down the curb and fell on his face. Pride smarting worse than his slightly twisted ankle, John got out when the cab stopped and paid the driver the exact change.

Walking across the sidewalk until he reached the wall and then turning towards the left to follow it, John reached a door. Putting his hand up to feel the numbers and letters on the door and finding them correct, John then knocked on the door. He stepped back and waited, almost not hearing the greeting that he was given.

"Hello."

"Ah – Mr. Holmes." John turned to face the voice and let the painting he had created yesterday come to mind. He could picture the coat swirling around the legs as Sherlock turned to face him.

"Sherlock, please." They shook hands.

"Well, Baker Street is a prime spot. Must be expensive." John said slightly nervous at what the price would be.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, the landlady - she's given me a special deal. Owes me a favour. A few years back, her husband got himself sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." This made John surprised as according to Mike, Sherlock wasn't a sentimental person.

"Sorry – you stopped her husband being executed?"

"Oh, no, I ensured it." The door opened and what seemed to be a little old lady came out.

"Sherlock!"

"Mrs. Hudson, Dr. John Watson." Sherlock introduced him to his landlady that he was obviously very fond of.

"Hello. Come in." Mrs. Hudson patted him on the back and let him enter.

"Thank you." He stuck his out his cane and walked through the doorway.

"Shall we...?" Sherlock let them through the door first before over taking them at, what sounded like, stairs. John took it easy going up the flight of steps, using his cane to tell him when to step forward or up. Mrs. Hudson guided him to a chair and he sank down gratefully, giving her hand a squeeze in thanks. Sherlock was still buzzing around the flat, doing whatever he thought was important at the moment.

"Well… I need to finish those experiments in the kitchen, and then Lestrade called about some case that needs sorting. Won't take it of course. Too boring. Skull needs dusting. Can't let a friend go dirty can I… Need to find that paper work of Mycroft, might decide that I need more restraint and that won't do at all. Oh, yes, have to dig out the old astronomy set from the spare bedroom and figure out what goats blood has to do with Jupiter. Toenails in the bathroom sink need to be checked on as well. Better do that know actually…" Sherlock then ran up to what John assumed was washroom and he could hear the crashing about. John made to follow if but was stopped by a hand to the shoulder.

"Don't worry about him, dear. He'll be alright. Now can I show you around the flat or would you like something to eat or drink."

"No I'm fine Mrs. Hudson and if you could just describe the place that's enough for me."

"Of course dear. As you come up the stairs, on your left is a doorway that leads in to the kitchen and on your right there…" John zoned out of most of what she was saying as the sound of someone, most likely Sherlock, came from the direction of the stairs.

"Sherlock!" A new voice entered the room and John guessed that the man was standing by the stairs.

"Up here! No, no, no, don't come up! I'm in the middle of an extremely delicate experiment and if you even breathe, it will disrupt the evidence."

"What about you then?"

"I'm not breathing."

John heard the man curse under his breath before sitting down on the stairs.

"Sherlock, if you are not down in the next twenty seconds then you will have missed out on a serial suicide case that will give you the chance to prove how incompetent we are at our job!" Police officer, John decided. A door slammed up stairs and from the sound the stairs were making, Sherlock was eager to hear more.

"Where?" He asked.

"Brixton, Lauriston Gardens." The place name was unfamiliar to John.

"What's new about this one? You wouldn't have come to me if there wasn't something different?" So Sherlock already knew about this case and was probably already involved.

"You know how they never leave notes?"

"Yeah."

"This one did. Will you come?" The policeman asked again.

"Who's on forensics?" Sherlock abruptly changed the subject.

"Anderson."

"Anderson won't work with me." Sherlock sounded slightly resigned as if the police officer was missing out on something.

"Well, he won't be your assistant."

"I NEED an assistant."

"Will you come?"

"Not in a police car, I'll be right behind." Sherlock had accepted a request from the police, but why didn't he just ride in the damn police car. It would be so much faster than a taxi. Sherlock probably had some bad dealings with the police before then.

"Thank you." The police officer left. There was a tense silence in the flat before the sound of Sherlock jumping around could be heard.

"Brilliant! Yes! Four serial suicides, and now a note. Oh, it's Christmas. Mrs Hudson, I'll be late. Might need some food." Material swayed and John imagined Sherlock putting on his coat and scarf.

"I'm your landlady, dear, not your housekeeper."

"Something cold will do. John, have a cup of tea, make yourself at home. Don't wait up!" The door closed behind him and John was left wondering what he could do.

"Look at him, dashing about...My husband was just the same. But you're more the sitting-down type, I can tell." John almost snorted. He didn't want to be considered a 'sitting-down type' by someone he had only known for maybe a quarter of an hour. "I'll get you that cuppa, you rest your leg."

"Damn my leg!" John immediately regretted his temper towards the old lady but he couldn't ignore that she was unknowingly pushing his buttons. "Sorry, I'm so sorry - It's just sometimes this bloody thing…" He smacked his leg to show her that it was okay and settled back in to the armchair.

"I understand, dear, I've got a hip." She said moving away to where, John assumed, was the kitchen.

"Cup of tea'd be lovely. Thank you."

"Just this once, dear, I'm not your housekeeper."

"Couple of biscuits too, if you've got 'em…"

"Not your housekeeper!" She disappeared off somewhere to make the tea and John was left to his own devices. There was a newspaper crumpled up on the table beside him, and John picked it up. It felt smooth with a few creases in it and John wished that he could read the words that he knew were printed in small letters all over the object he had in his hands.

"You're a doctor. In fact you're an Army doctor." Sherlock's voice came as a surprise to John as he had been on the verge of dozing off and hadn't heard the man return.

"Yes." He grabbed his cane and pulled himself up, not about to caught sitting down. He stared off to wherever he thought Sherlock was.

"Any good?"

"Very good." Very good at getting others killed.

"Seen a lot of injuries, then. Violent deaths." Of course he had. He'd been a bloody doctor! You couldn't go through a war without seeing your fair share of death and suffering.

"Well, yes."

"Bit of trouble too, I bet?"

"Of course. Yes. Enough for a lifetime, far too much." He nodded, thinking that he knew where this conversation was going.

"Want to see some more?"

"Oh, God, yes." That was what he had been waiting for. A break from his usually dull life to do something out of the ordinary. Not that he'd be much help, being blind, but at least he was doing something. John followed Sherlock out the door, staying close behind him to make sure that he didn't fall over something or walk into a wall.

"Sorry Mrs. Hudson, I'll skip the tea. Off out." He called out to Mrs. Hudson as his feet hit solid, flat ground.

"Both of you?" She asked, from somewhere to John's left, presumably her own apartment.

"Impossible suicides? Four of them? No point sitting at home when there's finally something fun going on!" A loud smacking noise echoed through the foyer and John guessed that Mrs. Hudson had just received a kiss on the cheek from Sherlock.

"Look at you, all happy. It's not decent." She reprimanded him but there was a warmth in her tone as she said it.

"Who cares about decent? The game, Mrs. Hudson, is on!" Sherlock held the door open for him before walking a little farther and yelling across the street.

"Taxi!"

* * *

**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. And finally… REVIEW!**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too. There will also be changes to what actually happened to account for John's blindness.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

* * *

"OK, You've got questions…" Sherlock read John's mind perfectly as the two of them sat in the taxi driving off to a place that John hardly knew existed.

"Yeah, where are we going?" John asked. He had a whole list of questions stacked up in the back of his mind, waiting for answers.

"Crime scene. Next?" Crime scene. That was probably the least useful answer that John had ever received.

"Who are you, what do you do?" He'd asked Mike many questions but he had forgotten to ask the last one.

"What do you think?"

"I'd say...private detective."

"But?"

"But the police don't go to private detectives." His mind painting of Sherlock was getting blurry, muddled and John was trying to fix it.

"I'm a consulting detective. Only one in the world, I invented the job." That was something new.

"What does that mean?"

"Means when the police are out of their depth, which is always, they consult me."

"The police don't consult amateurs." John said, a smile playing at his lips even though he knew that this man was professional. He wanted to see if he could rile up Sherlock.

"When I met you for the first time yesterday, I said Afghanistan or Iraq. You looked surprised."

"Yes, how DID you know?" Finally he might get an answer!

"I didn't know, I saw. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself says military. But your conversation as you entered the room said trained at Barts - so Army doctor, obvious. Your face is tanned... but no tan above the wrists. You've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your limp's really bad when you walk, but you don't ask for a chair when you stand - so it's at least partly psychosomatic. That says the original circumstances of the injury were traumatic -wounded in action then. Wounded in action, suntan - Afghanistan or Iraq." That was good, but anybody that knew where to look and what to look for could make that leap of judgment.

"You said I had a therapist."

"You've got a psychosomatic limp, of course you've got a therapist. Then there's your brother." Now we got to his 'brother'. Unless Sherlock was talking about Harry, who could be considered a boy in many ways, then he was wrong.

"Mm?"

"Your phone. It's expensive, e-mail enabled, MP3 player. If you're looking for a flat share, you wouldn't waste money on this- it's a gift then. Scratches. Not one, many over time-it's been in the same pocket as keys and coins. Man sitting next me wouldn't treat his one luxury item like this, so it's had a previous owner. Next bit's easy. You know it already." What did he know? What could have clued Sherlock into thinking that he had a brother. John took a wild guess.

"The engraving?" He asked, ready to be told that he was wrong.

"Harry Watson. Clearly a family member who's given you his old phone. Not your father, this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war hero who can't find a place to live - unlikely you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to. So brother it is. Now, who's Clara? Three kisses says it's a romantic attachment. The expense of the phone says wife, not girlfriend. Must have given it to him recently, this model's only six months old. Marriage in trouble then - six months on he's just given it away. If she'd left HIM, he would have kept it. People do. Sentiment. But no, he wanted rid of it. He left HER. He gave the phone to you, so he wants you to stay in touch. You're looking for cheap accommodation, but you're not going to your brother for help - that says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

"How can you possibly know about the drinking?" John could hear the chuckle the emanated from the man sitting on the other side of the cab.

"Shot in the dark. Good one, though. Power connection - tiny little scuff marks round the edge of it. Every night he plugs it in but his hands are shaking. You never see those marks on a sober man's phone, never see a drunk's without them. There you go, you see, you were right." John felt the familiar weight of the phone in his palm and his brow creased as he tried to figure out why he was right instead of the man who had pretty much told him what had happened in his own life.

"I was right? Right about what?"

"The police don't consult amateurs." Sherlock huffed and John smiled a little while still holding on tightly to the little mobile phone that had given away so much about his 'brother'.

"That...was amazing." He conceded, not wanting to inflate Sherlock's ego but certain that praise was necessary.

"Do you think so?" So Sherlock didn't get much praise. That was interesting.

"Of course it was. It was extraordinary, it was quite extraordinary."

"That's not what people normally say."

"What do people normally say?"

"Piss off!" John felt his mouth open in a genuine smile and he let a chuckle escape him. It felt good to have something to laugh about and someone to laugh with.

The rest of the drive was passed in friendly silence, both just enjoying the others company.

* * *

"Did I get anything wrong?" The question caught John by surprise, but then if he thought about it, it made sense for someone like Sherlock to see if he was wrong. It was also a good way to get to know his potential flatmate and his voice could also guide John to where they were going. The doctor didn't want to tell Sherlock that he couldn't see, as he rather enjoyed getting treated normally. Perhaps Sherlock already knew but just wasn't saying anything.

"Harry and me don't get on, never have, Clara and Harry split up three months ago and they're getting a divorce. Harry… is a drinker."

"Spot on, then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." He sounded pleased with himself. John smiled a bit as he burst the bubble surrounding Sherlock's extensive ego.

"Harry's short for Harriet." Sherlock fell silent and John stopped until he heard the voice and could figure out where he was standing.

"Harry's your sister." Behind him then.

"Look, what exactly am I supposed to be doing here?" John asked suddenly wondering why he had agreed to come. The sounds of the police where now really obvious and even he could just make out some of the flashing police lights.

"Sister!"

"No - seriously, what am I doing here?"

"There's always something." Sherlock said completely ignoring John and forcing him to follow or get left behind in a place he didn't know.

"Hello, freak!" A greeting thrown out in the air from towards they were heading. At first John thought that they were talking to him and stiffened slightly before realizing that he was in the company of Sherlock and that the man had said that his talents weren't always appreciated.

"I'm here to see Detective Inspector Lestrade." Sherlock replied, obviously used to it.

"Why?"

"I was invited."

"Why?" This person didn't like Sherlock at all and was making it as hard as possible for Sherlock. John just hoped that Sherlock thought of something intelligent to say.

"I think he wants me to take a look."

"Well, you know what I think, don't you?"

"Always Sally. I even know you didn't make it home last night." John had a feeling that he knew what Sherlock was playing at and just stayed silent to listen to how the conversation would play out.

"I don't... Who's this?" John looked up as he was addressed.

"Colleague of mine, Dr. Watson. Dr. Watson, Sergeant Sally Donovan. Old friend." Sherlock's voice was laced with sarcasm and bitterness and it was obvious that he was lying.

"A colleague? How do YOU get a colleague? Or did he follow you home?" John was now fighting the urge to punch this person in the face. He'd probably miss and hit Sherlock instead and even if he managed to hit the other person, he would be charged with the assault of a police officer. Not a very good thing.

"Would it be better if I just waited…" John began, but Sherlock cut him off.

"No." Well there was no space for argument there.

"Freak's here. Bringing him in." John heard a radio buzz and was thankful that it didn't require any more difficult or awkward conversations.

"Ah, Anderson. Here we are again." So he was about to meet the man that because he was there Sherlock had almost not taken the case. This was probably going to be quite a good show.

"It's a crime scene. I don't want it contaminated. Are we clear on that?" John thought that he seemed a bit like one of those high school jerks that thought they were so cool but actually weren't.

"Quite clear. And is your wife away for long?" Sherlock's reply was clipped as if he wanted to get this conversation over as fast as possible.

"Oh, don't pretend you worked that out. Somebody told you that."

"Your deodorant told me that."

"My deodorant?"

"It's for men."

"Well, of course it's for men - I'm wearing it."

"So is Sergeant Donovan. Ooh... I think it just vapourized. May I go in?" John finally understood what Sherlock was getting at he raised an eyebrow and his lips quirked upwards.

"Whatever you're trying to imply…"

"I'm not implying anything. I'm sure Sally came round for a nice little chat, and just happened to stay over. And I assume she scrubbed your floors, going by the state of her knees." John could hear the smile in Sherlock's voice and could imagine the looks the two police officers were giving each other.

John's cane hit a block of cement and he lifted his foot to step over and on to it. The house was even cooler then the air outside and John shivered through his woolly jumper and vest. Sherlock handed him something that felt like a jacket. He ran his fingers along the fabric and discovered the zip that ran most of the way along the clothing.

"You'll need to wear one of these."

"Who's this?" John recognized the police officer's voice as the one who had come to fetch Sherlock in the first place.

"He's with me."

"But who is he?"

"I said he's with me." John's heart swelled a little to know that Sherlock cared enough about him to stand up to a police Inspector to let him into a crime scene.

"So where are we?" Sherlock continued, changing the subject.

"Upstairs." The one word filled John with dread. Stairs, and by the sound of the echoes that bounced around the building a lot of stairs. John didn't think that he'd manage the amount of steps that he estimated were in this house and judging by the musky smell surrounding him, it was an old house and old houses usually had winding staircases.

"Sherlock…"

* * *

**I need help everyone! I have an idea as to what will happen when the cabbie turns up in the story and needs to die, but I'm not too sure about it. If anybody has an idea as to what I could do, please PM me or leave it in a review! Thanks!**

**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5**

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. I was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too. **

**AN: HUGE CHANGES AHEAD! And LOTS of dialogue.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

**Sorry that there was no update for the month of November, but I 'm assuming that everyone knows what I was doing during that time... NaNoWriMo! And I actually did it! Yes! Updates will be _even_ slower as I'm figuring out some of the trickier scenes that take place in the episode.*See bottom of chapter for details* **

**Stick with me folks!**

* * *

"What." Sherlock's voice was impatient and John assumed that he was just starting up the stairs.

"How many stairs are there?"

"Why do you want to know? It doesn't help solve the crime."

"Sherlock…" Now the Inspector was standing up for him. "I do have the authority to get you kicked off the crime scene. I don't know who he is but he has been able to put up with you and that's a good point in my book. Be nice for once." Sherlock huffed.

"Eighty-four." John's heart plummeted. He could barely manage the fifteen or so up to Sherlock's flat, how was he supposed to make it up over five times that number. If John had listened to reason then he would have been sensible and stayed downstairs and let someone else do it. But John was anything but sensible after having nothing exciting to do for six months and stubbornly nodded before heading towards the sound of footsteps. His lifted his walking stick up, and using the banister, pulled himself up the stairs. 83 more to go.

* * *

By the time John had made his way up the stairs, Sherlock was already halfway through another one of his deductions.

"…one night before returning home to Cardiff. So far, so obvious."

"What about the message though?" John walked through the door and leaned against the wall, waiting for something to happen.

"Dr Watson, what do you think?"

"Of the message?" Hoping that he wouldn't have to read it.

"Of the body. You're a medical man." Now he would have to examine it. This could get interesting if we had to do it without eyesight.

"We have a whole team right outside." Oh, John wished that the medical team would come and do it for him. He didn't want to have to tell Sherlock that he was blind just yet.

"They won't work with me."

"I'm breaking every rule letting YOU in here…"

"Yes...because you need me."

"Yes, I do. God help me." Now that was interesting news. Scotland Yard needed to call in a civilian to solve their cases for them. John wondered what the Detective Inspector's superiors would think if they ever found out. Everyone here would probably lose their jobs.

"Dr. Watson!" Sherlock snapped him out of his reverie.

"Oh! Yes sorry. May I Inspector?" He would have to check the body himself but he may as well get police approval.

"Oh, do as he says. Help yourself." John nodded in thanks and the Inspector walked past him.

"So where is the body?" The room was suddenly very, very quiet. Uncomfortably so.

"Uhhh… Over there." The Inspector pointed out.

"Yes, thank you Inspector. That has been the most helpful advice that I have received in the six months that I have been back in London." John took a couple of steps forward, holding his cane out, in front of him. He had taken about seven paces before he felt the wood hit something soft. He knelt down carefully and removed his latex gloves so he could use his fingers. It was a women, judging by the long thick hair that fell into John's hand as he started at her head.

"Women. About thirty or forty I would guess from the wrinkles. No marks on the body, I assume, Inspector?"

"No… Uhh…Tell me, Dr. Watson. Are you …"

"Throat slightly swollen, but that could just be her build. Shortish, about my height. No smell of alcohol or vomit on her. Could be asphyxiation. Could have been a seizure. Possibly drugs. Or…" Here John stopped, and looked up at where he thought Sherlock was.

"John, I'm over here." Sherlock's voice came from the other side of the room and John swiveled his head around to face the consulting detective.

"Yes."

"Stand up and look at me." Something in Sherlock's voice told John not to disobey and the doctor did as he was told. He stretched his neck so that he looked at where he thought Sherlock's head was.

"Of course! Why didn't I notice? The way you use your cane not just for your leg but also to make sure you don't hit anything. The way your reactions are slow to turn your head towards people. Why you were touching the house numbers at Baker Street. Your eyes are slightly cloudy and they have a sort unreal sense about them. It's so obvious! Why didn't I notice!" John could hear Sherlock's footfalls going around the room and he turned to follow his voice.

"Sherlock. You didn't KNOW that he was blind. You know everything about everyone." The Inspector added to the conversation, but he went on ignored.

"It was mustard gas wasn't it. Of course it was. Easiest way to lose your eyesight in Afghanistan. Could be shrapnel but there is no obvious scarring in and around your eyes so that's out of the equation. Must have happened at the same time that you got shot, unless they seeped the gas through into the hospital. Unlikely though. The doctors should be able to notice it and take action before it became too dangerous."

"You're a soldier?" John nodded at the Inspector, before shirting his weight onto his other foot. "Are you completely blind?" John sighed, then grabbed the Inspector by the arm and placing him in front of the window.

"I can see darkness, then something bright that must come from all the lights that are coming from outside and then a silhouette that looks like a man. It's a bit distorted but I know that you're standing in front of an opening." John explained, trying to ignore Sherlock's chattering that was making up much of the background noise and disorienting him slightly. The police sirens could be heard faintly and the police were still milling around downstairs. John relaxed slightly as the questions stopped coming from the police officer and some of the tension that had built up in his shoulders was leaving. He could feel his leg beginning to give way after so long supporting his weight and doing more physical activities then he had done in a long time. He grabbed the wall as his knee buckled but remained on his feet, willing himself to bear the strain and not collapse on the floor in an undignified heap. The Inspector however did notice and grabbed John's arm to steady him.

"Thanks."

"No problem." The Inspector replied. He seemed to have finished and John was about to head back down the stairs when he felt a gentle but firm hand on his shoulder. He cringed a bit but otherwise managed not to let it show. "Why didn't you tell Sherlock that you were blind? It would have been easier on yourself if he had just come here without you." John sighed and tried to ignore the ranting coming from the consulting detective over how he could have missed something that big and important.

"Have you ever been bored?

"Yes.

"Really, really bored?"

"Yes."

"Bored enough to try and kill yourself multiple times?" John almost smiled but stopped himself.

"Uhhh… No."

"Well then you don't know how refreshing it is to have someone like Sherlock. He missed the obvious and didn't notice that I'm blind. I felt like a normal person for the first time in six months. He stopped me from blowing my brains out with a gun and by extension, kept a crap load of paperwork about my suicide off your desk." John smiled and then pushed past the Inspector to start his 84 step descent. He could still hear Sherlock's voice rattling on and he guessed that Lestrade was now listened to what he was saying. Some of the words floated down the staircase and John could catch snippets of their, admittedly one-sided, conversation.

"Victim.. 30s... Person, going by… clothes… the media…frankly alarming shade of pink... from Cardiff… intending to stay… London one night… size of her suitcase."

"Suitcase?"

"Yes… married… ten years.. not happily… a string of lovers… none of them knew she was married."

"Oh, for God's sake, if you're just making this up…"

"… wedding ring. Ten years old… rest of… jewellery… but not… wedding ring… inside… shinier than the outside… not for work, look at her nails…. doesn't work with… hands so… DOES she remove her rings for… Not ONE lover… she'd never… single… a string of them.

"Cardiff?"

"It's obvious, isn't it?"

"Not really but I don't want an explanation." John could imagine Sherlock pouting at that comment. He was now too far away to hear anything that was being said but as he neared the bottom he could feel the pounding down the stairs. Sherlock's voice was easily distinguishable as he shouted up at the Inspector.

"Suitcase! Did anyone find a suitcase? Was there a suitcase in this house?" John wasn't sure what all the fuss about the suitcase was but it was important judging by the tone in Sherlock's voice.

"Sherlock, there was no case!" The Inspector sounded exasperated.

"But they take the poison themselves, they chew, swallow the pills themselves. There are clear signs, even you lot couldn't miss them." He continued running, bumping in to John on his way down. The soldier steadied himself on the railing and made sure that no one else would be following at high speeds. No one was and John continued his descent.

"Yeah, right, thanks. And...?" John could hear the exasperation in the Detective Inspector's voice.

"It's murder, all of them. I don't know how. But they're not suicides, they're serial killings. We've got ourselves a serial killer. Ooo… I love those. There's always something to look forward to." John was starting to get excited as well but managed to keep himself in check. It could be a mistake and there were lots of potential things that could have happened.

"Why are you saying that?" The Inspector was also doubtful.

"Her case! Come on, where is her case? Did she eat it? Someone else was here, and they took her case. So the killer must have driven here. Forgot the case was in the car." John found that it was time for him to voice his ideas before Sherlock went berserk.

"She could have checked into a hotel, left her case there." It was a reasonable explanation but John was certain that Sherlock would shoot it full of holes.

"No, look at her hair. She colour coordinates her lipstick and her shoes. She'd never have left any hotel with her hair still looking... Oh... Oh!" John could almost hear the gears whirling around inside the detective's head, trying to make sense of the problem.

"Sherlock?" John asked as the Inspector said the same. "What is it, what?"

"Serial killers, always hard. You have to wait for them to make a mistake." Sherlock's footsteps were growing fainter and John imagined that he was almost out of the house.

"We can't just wait!"

"Oh, we're done waiting. Look at her, really look! Houston, we have a mistake. Get on to Cardiff. Find out who Jennifer Wilson's family and friends were. Find Rachel!" Sherlock was probably out the door by now but Lestrade had to ask the one question that was on John's mind as well.

"Yeah, of course - but what mistake?!"

"Pink!"

* * *

**I need help! ****Please give me your ideas on what I could do for these scenarios that come up in A Study in Pink:**

******1) The scene at Angelo's  
**

******- Keep it the same  
**

******- Have Sherlock and John order takeaway  
**

******- Keep it the same but have John walk out and hail a taxi... Guess who's driving?  
**

******- Other  
**

******2) The cab chase scene  
**

******- Keep it the same (highly unlikely because John is blind and can't really jump across buildings!)  
**

******- Have John take another cab and follow Sherlock  
**

******- Follow up on John and Sherlock ordering takeaway  
**

******- Follow up on John walking out and into the cabbie's grasp, and cut the chase scene completely out  
**

******- Other  
**

******3) The drugs bust scene  
**

******- Keep it the same  
**

******- Follow up on the takeaway scene and have Lestrade burst in on them when they're eating  
**

******- Follow up on John walks out and gets into the cabbies taxi and cut the drugs bust scene out  
**

******- Put the drugs bust at a different point in the story  
**

******- Other  
**

******4) The cabbie showdown scene (I got some great ideas last chapter, but just in case others want to add their thoughts, I'm putting it up again!)  
**

******- Follow up on John getting picked up by the cabbie and Sherlock arrives in time to see John shoot the cabbie  
**

******- Closer range and John shooting on hearing and limited sight alone  
**

******- John has a dog with him and the dog helps somehow...  
**

******- John actually chooses the RIGHT building and shoots through the door instead of two windows  
**

******- Other  
**

******I'm going to put up a poll on my profile so you can vote there too, or just PM me or leave a review! I want your thoughts everyone!  
**

**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. And finally… REVIEW!**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. I was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too. **

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

* * *

John felt the vibrations of many feet running back up the stairs. He could also see the faint shadows that the police officers were making. The old, rickety steps creaked worryingly behind the doctor and John wondered for a moment whether the stairs could support the weight without breaking. He decided not to dwell on the fact. It was the police who would have to deal with that problem, not him.

Shrugging off the clothes that he had been asked to wear, John folded them as neatly as he could and placed them on what felt like a table. He turned to leave and began to walk towards where the draft was coming from the open door. The hairs on the back of his neck were standing up and John could feel eyes staring at his retreating head. He stopped and turned his almost sightless eyes towards where he thought the person was.

"Do you need a lift?" The Detective Inspector's voice came from roughly where he was facing. John turned down the offer before he realized that it might have been a sensible one.

"No thanks. I should be able to find my way back to where I'm staying." The Detective Inspector still sounded a little skeptical, as he agreed.

"Very well, if you get into any trouble, the name's Gregory Lestrade." John nodded and made a mental note to talk to the man at some point. He sounded like someone an old army doctor could get along with. Remembering that there were a couple fairly deep steps just outside the door, John took his time, ignoring the fact that he was holding up some of the officers that needed to pass him. John suddenly realized that he had no idea where he was and didn't how he could find his way to a cab, much less his flat. Someone walked just next to him from the sounds of their footfalls and John stuck out a hand to tap them on the shoulder. The person jumped in surprise before turning around to face him.

"Yes, what can I help you with?" John immediately recognized her as the Sergeant who had been reluctant to let them into the crime scene.

"Donovan, isn't it? Yes, I was wondering if you could tell me where I am."

"Brixton."

"Right. Right… Sorry, do you know where I could get a cab." The Sergeant seemed to be getting annoyed with him and it leaked through in to her voice.

"Try the main road." John muttered his thanks before heading off to where he could hear the cars rushing past. He was stopped once again by the Sergeant.

"You're not his friend. He doesn't HAVE friends. So who are you?"

"I'm...I'm nobody. I just met him."

"OK, bit of advice then. Stay away from that guy."

"Why?" John wondered. What had Sherlock done so that most of the police force hated him? He could understand that Sherlock probably wasn't the easiest person to get along with, but there had to be something more to it.

"You know why he's here? He's not paid or anything. He likes it. He gets off on it. The weirder the crime, the more he gets off. And you know what...? One day just showing up won't be enough. One day we'll be standing round a body and he'll be the one that put it there."

"Why would he do that?" John was fairly certain that killing someone and making a case about it wouldn't be much fun for Sherlock. John had recognized that Sherlock was consumed with the same boredom that he himself had. Making up a murder wouldn't help keep him entertained.

"Because he's a psychopath. Psychopaths get bored."

"Donovan!"

"Coming. Stay away from Sherlock Holmes." John was fairly sure that he wasn't going to take her advice and just ignored her. He continued walking down the road until he reached the crossing and attempted to flag down a cab. No one pulled up and John just kept walking.

A phone started to ring and it took John a little while to realize that it was his own. After feeling around on the small keyboard and finally finding the correct button, John answered.

"Hello?"

**"There is a security camera on the building to your left. Do you see it?"** Someone said after a slight pause. It wasn't anyone's voice that he recognized and John was very tempted to hang up on the caller, but the doctor couldn't deny that the mysterious statement was jump-starting his need for excitement and decided to see what the man wanted.

"Who's this? Who's speaking?"

**"Do you see the camera, Dr. Watson?" **John wasn't sure what to say. He could tell the truth about his eyesight and go from there or he could lie and say that he could, but then he might need to describe something and he wouldn't be able to do that. John decided to just play ignorant.

"No I don't see it." At least he hadn't confessed to being blind. He always hated saying those two words that just seemed to condemn him to special treatment that he despised.

**"Hmmm… Well that is to be expected considering you haven't even looked around for the camera. Please do not waste my time Dr. Watson and be a little more observant then your first attempt."** John started a little at the fact that this man was following his movements and decided pretend to look around and lie about his eyesight.

"Yes I see it."

**"Watch..." **John hoped that what was happening wouldn't be important but had a sinking feeling that he was probably getting in to trouble. His fears were realized when he heard a child's voice. A small girl's by the sound of it.

"Mummy! Mummy! Look at the moving camera!" It took John less than a second to understand the implications of what was happening. Cursing himself for getting muddled up these affairs, John decided to just kept cool and not give away his true feelings and fears. The other man was already talking.

**"There is another camera on the building opposite you. Do you see it?" **John turned around until he was facing the other way and began to pretend again.

"Mm-hm." The camera was probably moving again.

**"And finally, at the top of the building on your right." **John was pretty sure that he had now pretty much disappeared from the security footage and that something was about to happen to him.** "Get into the car, Dr. Watson. I would make some sort of threat, but I'm sure your situation is quite clear to you." **The phone call went dead.

John heard a car slow down and stop next to him on the curb. Someone got out and John assumed that they were holding the door open for him. The sense of adventure that he had had earlier was now replaced with caution and the hairs on the back of his neck were tingling. John wished that he had the foresight to bring his gun with him, but then again, he had been going to meet his potential flat mate and bringing a gun along was definitely not a great way to make a good impression.

Using the cane to help him down on to the street, John sat down heavily and pulled his feet in after him. The door slammed behind him and the engine started. John could feel the power of the car under his feet and was reminded of all the machinery back in Afghanistan. All the raw power that could destroy anything, and kill anyone.

Trying to ignore the way his thoughts were turning towards darker subjects, John tried to keep up a conversation with the person next to him. It was fairly one-sided but John was just glad that the uncomfortable silence that had filled the very luxurious vehicle was shattered, even if it was with his own voice.

It was a good twenty minutes before the drive ended and the door opened once again. John sighed and stood up, ignoring the twinge that shot up his leg as he did so. The building that he was in was far colder than he had expected and was irritating his old war wounds. He stood still, not knowing what he was here for.

"Have a seat, John." The voice was the same as on the phone and John was finding that it grated more on his nerves the more he heard it. Hoping that he wouldn't be here long, John began walking towards the sound.

"What am I doing here?"

"Generally, I am the one asking the questions but I think that we can make an exception this time. When one is avoiding the attention of Sherlock Holmes, one learns to be discreet, hence this place. Your leg must be hurting you. Sit down." John noticed that the man was attempting to show that he was sympathetic by offering him a chair, but John still had his pride, even if he had lost much of it with his eyesight and he refused.

"I don't want to sit down."

"You don't seem very afraid."

"You don't seem very frightening." The man seemed to find that amusing. Something about him reminded John of Sherlock, but he pushed the thought away so that he could concentrate on what was happening.

"Yes...The bravery of the soldier. Bravery is by far the kindest word for stupidity, don't you think? What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?" John was slightly offended at the insult directed towards him and all the soldiers he had known that had been brave enough to fight for their country, but realized that what the man had said was at least partly true. Sometimes being brave was stupid if you valued your life, but if you didn't then it wasn't stupid in the least. John just decided to let the comment slide.

"I don't have one. I barely know him, I met him...yesterday."

"Hmmm… And since yesterday you've moved in with him and now you're solving crimes together. Might we expect a happy announcement by the end of the week?"

"Who are you?" John was getting fed up with not knowing who the man was. He couldn't even paint a mental picture because he couldn't see him.

"An interested party." John hadn't really expected the man to give his name and so wasn't too disappointed in the answer he was given. He continued the conversation half-heartedly, hoping that it would come to an end fairly soon. He had determined that this man wasn't an immediate threat and he had let his guard relax a little. Someone had texted him a couple times and even if John hadn't been able to read them, it had provided a nice lull in the conversation. John relaxed even more, when the man hadn't taken the phone out of his hands and that allowed him to feel even more secure now that he knew that he had contact with the world.

"If you DO move into, erm...221B Baker Street, I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to ease your way." Now that surprised John. He had guessed from the state of the car and the way he spoke that the man was wealthy and had an important position in a business or in the government, but why would this man pay _him_? He was a soldier sent home because of his injuries, with little money. There were probably thousands of men and women in the same boat as him. What made him special? Special enough to be kidnapped and then offered money, just because his potential flat mate was Sherlock Holmes. John immediately tensed at what this man might want with Sherlock.

"Why?"

"Because you're not a wealthy man."

"In exchange for what?"

"Information. Nothing indiscreet. Nothing you'd feel...uncomfortable with. Just tell me what he's up to." John was suddenly feeling very protective of Sherlock. He had barely known the man for a day and yet here he was seriously considering turning down an offer for money because of him. Money that he could use to have an eye operation. John thought that he was going mad.

"Why?"

"I worry about him. Constantly."

"That's nice of you."

"But I would prefer for various reasons that my concern go unmentioned, we have what you might call a... difficult relationship." John's judgment was wavering slightly but he could just imagine what could happen if he agreed.

"No."

"But I haven't mentioned a figure." The man sounded surprised and John could just imagine how much he had been willing to pay.

"Don't bother."

"You're very loyal VERY quickly."

"No, I'm not, I'm just not interested." John just wished that this man would leave him alone and that he could go back to either Baker Street or his own flat. There was the sound of turning pages and John wished that his eyesight would return, if only to see what the man was doing.

""Trust issues"...it says here."

"What's that?"

"Could it be that you've decided to trust Sherlock Holmes of all people?"

"Who says I trust him?"

"You don't seem the kind to make friends easily."

"Are we done?"

"You tell me." John turned around on the spot and began to walk back the way he had come. He had only gone about five paces before the man's voice started up again. "I imagine people have already warned you to stay away from him, but I can see from your left hand that's not going to happen." The tone of voice that the man had used reminded John so vividly of Sherlock that he stopped and waited for the man to continue. When he didn't say anything, John took over for him.

"My what?"

"Show me." John stuck out his hand to show the man, tensing when he felt fingers brush over his.

"Don't..."

"Remarkable."

"What is?"

"Most people...blunder round this city, and all they see are streets and shops and cars. When you walk with Sherlock Holmes, you see the battlefield. You've seen it already. Haven't you?" The man had been slowly walking away, cane or umbrella tapping on the concrete floor as he did so.

"What's wrong with my hand?" John asked again, wanting to know what this man could see.

"You have an intermittent tremor in your left hand. Your therapist thinks it's post-traumatic stress disorder. She thinks you're haunted by memories of your military service."

"Who the hell are you? And, how do you know that?" John couldn't deny the truth in this man's statement, and as much as he hated to, he agreed with him.

"Fire her. She's got it the wrong way round. You're under stress right now and your hand is perfectly steady. You're not haunted by the war, Dr Watson... You miss it. Welcome back." John didn't move. He knew that what the man had said was true, down to the very letter, but he didn't want to believe that he could go back and spill the blood of soldiers and children alike.

"Time to choose a side, Dr Watson. Sherlock's side isn't one for a blind doctor." And John heard no more from the man. He had left him alone in a damp building with a very expensive car and an assistant that preferred to remain silent.

_God help me, what have I gotten into?_

* * *

**The next few chapters are going to change dramatically from A Study in Pink. I still don't know how the events are going to play out, so that will be taking up much of my time. Writing John blind is HARD!**

**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. And finally… REVIEW!**

**WritingReadingLaughing**


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. It was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too.**

**AN: There is a lot of editing from the actual episode in this chapter as we are meeting new people and it's getting hard to stick to canon. Also, I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. I hope that this update makes up for the hiatus.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

* * *

John got out of the sleek car, face calm and showing no emotion but underneath the blank expression, his thoughts and feelings were tumbling round and round and he was trying to give them some order. It wasn't working. Sherlock Holmes had definitely changed his life dramatically in the short time that he had known the man. Even if being kidnapped could be a regular occurrence, John had realized that maybe Sherlock needed a friend more than anything else and John was ready and willing to extend a hand in companionship even if no one else would.

Nodding his thanks to Mrs. Hudson, who had opened the door for him almost before he had even knocked, John made his way up the stairs, calloused hand gripping the banister tightly so that he wouldn't fall. The door at the top of the stairs was half-closed and John pushed it slightly with his cane so that it would swing open. He gritted his teeth as the hinges protested vigourously, and made a mental note to oil them at some point.

A loud moan came from the other side of the room and John's mind immediately came up with numerous situations, each less likely than the last.

"What are you doing?"

"Nicotine patch. Helps me think. Impossible to sustain a smoking habit in London these days. Bad news for brain work." The answer was almost instantaneous and spoken with an air of boredom. John supposed that he should be surprised at how calmly the man could speak of the drug, but then again, Sherlock was full of surprises.

"Good news for breathing."

"Oh... Breathing! Breathing's boring." Sherlock flung his hand out and smacked John in the knee. Taken unawares by the action, John instinctively grabbed it. There was silence between them, and John could feel the tension rolling off of Sherlock at being touched. The doctor loosened his grip slightly but didn't let go altogether. Under his fingers, John could feel the adhesive pads of the stimulant drugs. He automatically counted them and felt… One… Two…Three? John's eyebrows rose as he calculated how much nicotine the man was using, but decided not to comment. It wasn't enough to be extremely dangerous anyway.

"Is that...three patches?"

"It's a three-patch problem." And Sherlock didn't elaborate. He just pulled his arm firmly out of John's grasp and rolled his sleeve back down. John sighed and made his way over to the armchair in which he had sat down in earlier today.

"Well...? Any headway on the case?"

"Hmmm…" John sighed at the unintelligent response and flexed the fingers on his left hand. He could still feel the ghostly touch of the immaculately dressed man and he wanted to disinfect his hands so badly, but didn't think that Sherlock would have any disinfectant and John couldn't be bothered to go look for it.

"Well… Is there anything I can do?" The soldier sat down heavily and leaned forwards into the most comfortable position given his injuries.

"Oh - yeah, of course. Can I borrow your phone?"

"My phone?"

"Always a chance that my number will be recognized. It's on the website."

"Mrs Hudson's got a phone."

"Yeah, she's downstairs. I tried shouting but she didn't hear."

"I WAS the other side of London..."

"There was no hurry." John sighed at how irritating Sherlock could be and pulled the small device out of his pocket and held it out.

"If you want it, you'll have to come and get it. My leg won't let me get up." And it was true. He'd spent more time using old muscles that he hadn't stretched or put nearly as much pressure on in ages, and if he did anything else without giving it a rest, he was likely to fall over. John heard the sigh coming from where the settee was and the shifting of pillows and fabric, before delicate fingers grasped the device and lifted it off his palm.

"So what's this about - the case?" John asked out of curiousity, not wanting to be left completely out of the loop. There was the light sound of fingers tapping the screen of his phone as Sherlock continued to fiddle with his phone.

"Her case..." He said, obviously distracted by what he was doing.

"HER case?"

"Her suitcase, yes, obviously. The murderer took her suitcase, first big mistake."

"OK, he took her case. So?" John pressed, but he sensed that he wouldn't get a straight answer and so wasn't too disappointed when Sherlock just breezed past his question and handed him back his phone. John tapped at it a couple times wishing that he could see the message, but finally giving up and slipping the phone back into his pocket.

The hairs on the back of the army doctor's neck prickled slightly and he swiveled his head over to where Sherlock had last been, assuming that Sherlock was watching him and trying to be discreet about it. John just nodded at him, giving him the go ahead to ask the question that was obviously on the detective's mind. Sherlock didn't hesitate and jumped right in.

"What's wrong?" John huffed. This man didn't beat around the bush at all. Just jumped right in and dealt with the consequences later.

"Just met a friend of yours."

"A friend?"

"An enemy."

"Oh. Which one?"

"Well, your arch-enemy, according to him. Do people even have arch-enemies?"

"Did he offer you money to spy on me?"

"Yes." John said after a moment's hesitation, not sure if that was the correct answer but telling the truth anyway.

"Did you take it?"

"No."

"Pity, we could have split the fee. Think it through next time." John snorted and couldn't help the small smile that was beginning to grow on his face.

"Who is he?"

"The most dangerous man you've ever met and not my problem right now." The cushions shifted a little and Sherlock pushed past John, brushing against the soldier. John stiffened unconsciously at the contact but willed himself to relax. It was only Sherlock after all.

After some more shifting and a couple crashes, Sherlock finally stopped moving around and John heard the pillows compress just opposite him, signaling that the detective had decided to sit down in his chair.

"Now. I'm just ordering something to eat from Angelo's. Want some?" John opened his mouth, but Sherlock beat him once again.

"Of course you do. You haven't eaten anything since this morning, and toast with jam isn't much for normal people like you." John frowned a little but said nothing and only nodded his consent for food.

"What would you like?"

"Anything. I've never been there." There was some tapping of keys before Sherlock stopped and put his phone away somewhere before leaving the room once again. John leaned back and settled into the chair, pulling a cushion out from under his back, where it had been bunched up uncomfortably.

"Angelo will be here in eight minutes, twenty-three seconds." Sherlock said from the somewhere behind the soldier. There was the sound of rummaging around, and something in the background shattered. John winced a little as it did, mentally calculating damage.

_Sherlock seems like the destructive sort, so it can't be much a problem. The dull scratching sound is associated more with pottery than glass. Glass splinters more. Conclusion, it was a mug or bowl of some sort. Harmless._

John breathed a little more steadily after his mental tally of the unexpected noise. Old habits die hard, and when even the smallest noises could signal death and destruction, John seemed pleased that he hadn't jumped up from his chair nor reached for his gun.

Footsteps thudded against the wooden floor and John shifted his feet a little as Sherlock brushed past, and something heavy, yet slightly cushioned landed on the table in front of him.

"Go on then… We have seven minutes, fifty-eight seconds until Angelo arrives. Tell me what it is." John leaned forward slightly as the detective spoke, hands already reaching for the large object, a surge of electricity and adrenaline working its way up his body.

Hands serving as eyes brushed against fabric and cushion, yet underneath it, it felt hard and solid. John's fingers caught on the rough plastic that continued around the object.

_Haaa… Must be a suitcase of some sort. That would also explain the excitement about the case._

John didn't realize until Sherlock started speaking that he'd said his thoughts aloud.

"Very good. Anything else?" John couldn't help but feel as if Sherlock was playing a game with him, but it felt refreshing to have someone challenge him. His fingers continued to run along seams, forming pictures in his mind as they did so. John pressed hard against the fabric, feeling a little moisture wet his fingers.

"It's slightly damp, so it probably got wet at some point in the past day. Also…" John paused and brought his face close to the suitcase to give it a quick sniff. "… there's a faint smell of sewage and waste. Was it in a rubbish bin?"

"Very good, John. You missed many of the finer details, but that can be excused. I did collect this suitcase from a dump and it was raining. The tag says Jennifer Wilson in a women's hand, the fabric is a bright, hot pink, and before you ask, yes, Jennifer Wilson was the dead women." John closed his mouth as the question that had been on the tip of his tongue was answered, before opening it again and asking a different one

"Isn't that important? This suitcase, is Jennifer Wilson's. And she's dead.

"Yes, obviously. Oh, perhaps I should mention - I didn't kill her."

"I never said you did."

"Why not? Given that text and the fact I have her case it's a perfectly logical assumption."

"Do people usually assume you're the murderer?"

"Now and then, yes." John frowned a little at the answer and pursed his lips together. Nothing that he'd seen so far concerning Sherlock Holmes suggested that the man was a killer, but then again, he'd met him only twenty-four hours ago.

The soldier licked his lips thoughtfully as his mind wandered and he tried to think of another question that he could ask the detective.

"Ummm… Okay. How did you get this?"

"By looking."

"Where?"

"The killer must have driven her to Lauriston Gardens. He could only keep her case by accident if it was in the car. Nobody could be seen with this case without drawing attention - particularly a man, which is statistically more likely. So obviously he'd feel compelled to get rid of it. Wouldn't have taken him more than five minutes to realise his mistake. I checked every backstreet wide enough for a car five minutes from Lauriston Gardens, 'and anywhere you could dispose of a bulky object without being observed. 'Took me less than an hour to find the right skip.'"

"You got all that because you realised the case would be pink?

"It had to be pink, obviously." John didn't really understand why it should be obvious, but he trusted Sherlock enough to believe him. He nodded thoughtfully and turned his attention back to Sherlock, who hadn't stopped talking.

"Now, where's her mobile phone? There was no phone on the body, there's no phone in the case. We know she had one. I just texted it using your phone." John leant back and began to tap his fingers on the arm rest, as he mulled over the question.

"Maybe she left it at home." He said, not entirely convinced that that was the correct answer.

"She has a string of lovers and she's careful about it. She never leaves her phone at home. The question is where is her phone NOW?"

"She could have lost it." John said.

"Yes, or?" Sherlock was giving him hints, getting him to think about what a women in her thirties' would do with her phone. Suddenly, a rather strange idea popped into his head, but… Sherlock didn't really think that, did he? He voiced his thoughts anyway.

"The murderer... You think the murderer has the phone?"

"Maybe she...left it when she left her case. Maybe he took it from her for some reason. Either way, the balance of probability is the murderer has her phone."

"Sorry...what are we doing - did I just text a murderer? What good will that do?" John voice had risen ever so slightly in pitch, but even if that was slightly embarrassing, he thought that after being told that his phone was being used to contact a murderer it was justified to feel a slight panic and a spark of adrenaline.

The phone in his pocket buzzed.

"A few hours after his last victim, and now he receives a text that can only be from her. If somebody had just found that phone they'd ignore a text like that, but the murderer... would panic." The case lid slammed shut and John turned around at the noise, ready to ask even more questions, but Sherlock cut him off.

"Angelo's here, John! Must eat while the food's still hot!"

* * *

**I hope that I haven't made John to Sherlocky with all his assumptions about people and his surroundings but I've heard that people who are blind have better hearing, smell, touch and taste and so are able to figure out what is, more or less, going on around them. **

**Please review…**

**WritingReadingLaughing**


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary: John Watson left to serve his country a healthy and happy man. Now, after only year of service, he returns with a bum shoulder and leg, sick… and he's blind. Non-slash.**

**I wrote this for a prompt that I found in a Forum here on FanFiction and couldn't get it out of my head. I was original and I thought that I could write something pretty good for it. (Maybe). This is dedicated to Agent ERA for the fantastic idea!**

**I have no experience with the matters in Afghanistan or any medical procedures that are followed while in the army. If you see any errors in what I wrote then please tell me so that I may correct it. The gas that blinded John was Mustard Gas or Sulphur Mustard. I don't exactly know how long you can be blinded for if it gets in your eyes but for the sake of this story I'm just making it up. Please tell me if it's wrong. I also don't really know how long it takes for a shoulder to heal after being shot. I did a bit of research but I'm not certain so I'm making that up too.**

**AN: There is a lot of editing from the actual episode in this chapter as we are meeting new people and it's getting hard to stick to canon.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock or anything, ACD or BBC.**

* * *

When the food did arrive, it was delicious. John couldn't remember the last time he had such good spaghetti bolognaise.

"Why didn't you tell me about your eyesight?" John finished chewing his mouthful and swallowed before opening his mouth to reply. He was cut off immediately by Sherlock.

"Wait, don't tell me. You're a soldier and used to being able to use all your senses to your advantage. With the loss of your sight, you have to depend on your other senses. Normally before your time in the army, that wouldn't have bothered you if it was temporary, but now that it's permanent it has a different effect on you. Having to depend on other things constantly and not being able to see with your eyes is hard for you. Why? Ummm… Maybe because you were a soldier and your pride won't let you, or maybe you just want to go back to the life you had before you enlisted. Highly unlikely because of your PTSD and nightmares but you try…"

John butted in not wanting to hear Sherlock deduce every little bit of his life even if it was truly incredible.

"Everyone asks what happens and I don't have a chance to act normally around them because of my blindness. Whenever someone looks at me, they see an invalid, someone who needs help with doing the littlest things and that changes their attitude and the way that they treat you." Here John paused, took a deep breath as he tried to stop what could very well have turned into a long, loud rant.

"When I met you, you didn't act differently to accommodate for my disabilities. You thought that I was normal, and it was as if I could start a new life all over again because someone didn't realize what I actually was. Someone thought that I was a normal person and as foolish and selfish as it seems, I didn't want you to realize my blindness and change. I want to be a normal human being. Is that too much to ask from the world?"

John stopped and took another mouthful of the delicious spaghetti, sucking up one of the longer noodles and getting sauce on his chin. He wiped it off with a napkin that he held in his other hand.

"Sometimes it is, you know."

The soldier looked up from his meal, still wishing that he could see the man and look him in the eye as they spoke to each other.

"People value things that they have, and look down on people who don't have it." John was dimly aware that his mouth was hanging open at what was being said. Sherlock didn't strike him as an emotional person at all and some part of his mind was telling him that this wasn't something that happened often. John heard Sherlock sigh.

"Please try and retain some form of strength in your jaw, John. It's highly unattractive when one leaves their mouth hanging like that." John's teeth clanked together as he swiftly closed his mouth. He paused for a moment before returning his attention to his plate, side of his fork scraping the porcelain.

Neither of them spoke for a short while until John cleared his throat.

"People don't have archenemies' you know."

"Hummmm…"

"In real life, there are no archenemies'. It just doesn't happen."

"Doesn't it? Sounds a bit dull." There was the sound of rustling papers from somewhere to John's right, but the soldier ignored it.

"So who did I meet then?"

"Someone who's not important." Sherlock didn't say anything after that and John was content to just keep eating, occasionally taking a sip of water from a glass he was balancing on the chair's arm rest.

"What are we actually doing?"

"Waiting."

"For…?"

"The murderer."

"He isn't just gonna ring the doorbell, though, is he? He'd need to be mad."

"He has killed four people."

"…Okay."

"What do real people have, then, in their 'real lives'?" John furrowed his brow wondering why the subject had changed so rapidly. He bit his bottom lip unconsciously before answering.

"Friends; people they know; people they like; people they don't like ... Girlfriends, boyfriends ..."

"Yes, well, as I was saying – dull."

"You don't have a girlfriend, then?"

"Girlfriend? No, not really my area."

"Mm…" A moment passed before he realized the possible significance of Sherlock's statement. John tilted his head down wards towards his plate. Even though he was blind, he didn't feel brave enough to look Sherlock in the eye.

"Oh, right. D'you have a boyfriend?"

"Which is fine, by the way."

"I know it's fine." John smiled a little to show that he didn't mean anything by what he said, but he was sure that it came out slightly forced as muscles he hadn't had cause to use were stretched.

"So you've got a boyfriend then?"

"No." John was still smiling, though he was beginning to feel awkward, trying to keep up a one-sided conversation. He was running out of things to say so he just said what ran through his mind, not bothering to filter his thoughts like he usually did.

"Right. Okay. You're unattached. Like me. Fine. Good."

They lapsed into silence once again and John was about to start up another, probably just as awkward conversation, but Sherlock started to speak. If anyone could sound even more awkward than John felt at that moment, it would be Sherlock. He was talking rapidly and sped up until he was almost babbling

"John, um ... I think you should know that I consider myself married to my work, and while I'm flattered by your interest, I'm really not looking for any ...

"No." John interrupted and cleared his throat a little before starting again. "No, I'm not asking. No. I'm just saying, it's all fine."

"Good. Thank you."

John let out a breath that he didn't realize he was holding and replayed the last couple minutes in his head, cringing inwardly at how it sounded now that he could think about it. After his fork encountered no resistance in scraping across the plate, John rested his fork and knife on the ceramic plate before placing it on the table and sitting back.

Sherlock was pacing, obvious from the sound of his shoes on the hardwood floor and John began to tap his fingers in time with the steps. He started when Sherlock began to speak.

"May I experiment on you?"

"Why?"

"I have a theory that I wish to try. I am asking your permission."

"I guess. What do I have to do?"

"Just listen."

John sat back, and even though it was unnecessary, closed his eyes and entwined his fingers together. He wasn't quite sure what Sherlock was going to do, but it couldn't be any stranger than what John had already experienced with the detective.

"Now, I want you to imagine that we're sitting in a restaurant, having dinner much like now. We're sitting at a window booth on Northumberland St. and there are cars, motorbikes and taxis passing. You are eating. I am not."

"Suddenly, my eyes fix on something outside in the street…"

"Why are we there?" John interrupted and heard Sherlock sigh. John winced and thought that Sherlock would stop his story, but after a couple seconds, the detective continued on, answering his question as he did so.

"A murderer has been stumping the police force of Scotland Yard, and we have agreed to meet up at this location. There is a taxi idling by the side of the road, and there is someone seated inside. Why isn't the taxi driving off if it already has a passenger. It's strange, so I jump up and you follow behind me. I don't bother to check the road that I'm running into and am almost run over by a car coming from my left. The driver slams on the brakes and stops the car but I keep going, rolling over the bonnet, landing on my feet on the other side and continue to run after the taxi. You remember the cab number, and I congratulate you, as I start to plan a way to cut off the taxi.

"We start to run, bumping into people as I lead us along alleyways and up stairways. You're apologizing to people for me, something that nobody ever does but I don't say anything to you. I race up the stairs and out onto a metal spiral fire escape staircase leading to the roof. You struggle to keep up to me as my legs are longer and I take the stairs two or three at a time."

"When we reach the top of the stairs, I run to the edge and leap across to the next building. You run up to the edge but then worry that you won't be able to jump the gap.

"'Come on, John. We're losing him!' I shout and you seem to make up your mind and you jump. You land safely and we run onwards."

"We run across more rooftops, jumping over avenues and sliding down fire escape. The rain has made everything almost dangerously wet and yet neither of us slip on sodden shingles of on dull metal. There are road works blocking several intersections and the cab we're chasing has to detour to avoid them."

"We miss the cab and he gets away, but I 've already mapped out an alternate route and so follow it. You go the wrong way, but after I shout out after you and tell you to change direction. You do and we keep running. I race out of a side street and hurl myself into the path of the approaching cab, which screeches to a halt as I crash into the bonnet. I pull out an I.D. badge and flash it as I tug open the rear door and look in at the passenger, who looks back at me anxiously. I realize immediately that it's not who I'm looking for as you come up behind me."

The man's just come from California, Los Angeles according to the luggage tag on his suitcase. It's his first trip to London, going by his final destination and the route the cabbie was taking. The passenger is confused and doesn't know what's happening and so I flash the I.D. once again to prove that we are police. The man still doesn't know what to make of us and so I take the easiest way to end the conversation."

"'Welcome to London.'" I walk away and after several seconds you follow. The high of the chase is beginning to fade but we laugh and when a traffic officer looks over at us, we run off."

"You're telling me that that was one of the most ridiculous things that you'd ever done, as we stumble in to the hallway of 221B. We're laughing and leaning against the hall; you've taken off your jacket and hung it up on the coat rack by the door. You're asking what that chase for but I don't answer. Finally I go upstairs and you follow."

John opened his eyes when Sherlock didn't speak anymore and smiled. He was confused, but he knew that his heart had been beating faster and harder during Sherlock's story, as if he'd actually done all the things that Sherlock had spoken about. He felt relaxed and chuckled a little. Sherlock started to say something, but they were both interrupted by a loud knock on the door.

"Police! Open the door!"

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**Apologizes for the late updates! Real life is catching up and I don't have much time for my fics. I'm also having difficulties with these chapters and I still need to sort out the ending and what's going to happen in the last couple chapters.**

**Reviews are always appreciated!**

**WritingReadingLaughing**


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